


The Liar and the Lamb

by Carazard



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Billford - Freeform, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, NSFW, Prostitution, Self Harm, Sibling Incest, Stancest - Freeform, eventual stancest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5193701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carazard/pseuds/Carazard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford Pines has always been vulnerable to flattery, something Bill Cipher catches onto very quickly. Soon Ford is researching into dangerous ideas beyond his dimension, though troubled by memories of his brother, work is slow. Fiddleford, before resigning from the potentially harmful research, calls Stanley Pines to Gravity Falls; the only hope left to prevent Ford's wallowing in despair, and precarious reliance upon Bill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Elder

Ford’s time in university, though very tough, had been one of the most fulfilling periods of life so far; it was the perfect limbo between the final years of adolescence and the development into a fully independent adult, with responsibilities and experience and maturity. After about six months of this adulthood being thrust upon him, Ford had decided, what with spending the majority of his life as part of a duo, looking after yourself was much harder than most people made it look. Even since he’d asked Fiddleford to assist with his research Ford often seemed to forget that he wasn’t as durable as the machines which kept him from showering for days on end, and occasionally forgetting to eat for over forty eight hours.

Fiddleford tried, he really did, to keep Ford grounded. The man was already familiar with Ford’s somewhat self-destructive attitude towards his work, he’d seen enough of that in the years they’d spent together in university, but there was something different about his most project - one he’d requested Fiddleford to stay with him and help complete - a new level of disregard for his physical form. Fiddleford could understand this obsession to an extent; this was a captivating work of mathematical art, upon completion it would stir fascinated havoc from every corner of the scientific community.

And then the progress stopped. After weeks of unhealthily rapid progress for two graduates in an ill equipped basement, Ford was suddenly stumped. He’d sit and stare at his equations, checking and rechecking his incorrect solutions. Needless to say, the mathematics was sound; Fiddleford had checked it over multiple times just to set Ford’s mind at ease that he hadn’t driven himself mad (in the final weeks of writing his thesis, Ford had temporarily forgotten all basic arithmetic, and had woken Fiddleford up in the middle of the night demanding to know what three times eight was. Apparently he’d also forgotten the existence of calculators).  Was it a problem with the equations? Or worse, the entire _concept?_ Neither knew for sure, but whatever inspiration Ford had been drawing from to come up with such radical concepts in the first place had seemed to run out, and Fiddleford had no idea why, or indeed where his initial inspiration had emerged from.

He’d tried talking to a despairing Ford one afternoon while bringing him some leftover food. “What are you stuck on?” “Is anything bothering you?” “Do you think you should maybe take a break for a while, lay off for a few days?” All that came in reply was helpless grunts.

Eventually Fiddleford convinced Ford to brainstorm with him, go over the concept from the beginning. When that didn’t work, he attempted to get Ford to talk about his emotions; perhaps they were clouding what had been such a brilliant vision of this impossible machine. Ford brushed that off; _don’t be silly Fiddleford as if something as trivial as that would effect this_. He was hopeless.

And, for the first time in a long time, Ford _felt_ hopeless. Everything he tried just tangled him in more knots. He didn’t know if the long and complicated corrections he did were just part of the long journey to the correct answer, or if every new equation was one step further away from the truth.

The worst thing was, he knew this struggle was for nothing. He knew someone with the answers.

But what if he was _busy_ , surely Ford should try and overcome his problems _himself_ rather than relying on _him_ all the time… The thought of calling him only to find out the problem was embarrassingly simple and he’d just been blind when checking through multiple times was just too much. He couldn’t fail what was expected of him. He could do this himself.

By the third day of basking in this mess of miscalculations, he could not do this himself. It was time to give in and request assistance.

For the first time in weeks, Ford left the basement to go and rest in his room, on his bed for a few hours. He lay down, surrounding himself in blanket eyes instinctively falling shut. When was the last time he’d slept again…?

Before he’d realised, he was suddenly in the Mindscape. It’d been too long since he’d been here in this beautiful abstraction, knowledge oozed around him, as if there was only a paper-thin barrier between the infinite knowledge of the conceptual world and the ignorance of the physical. It felt right to be here, like he was returning home. Of course, before long he appeared.

“You’ve been having trouble with this one, huh Sixer?”

“You’ve been watching me?”

Bill materialised, same as usual, looking smug despite only having a single eye to express emotion. “I watch everything. Weren’t up to the challenge of doing this one by yourself? I expected more of you, IQ.”

His ears burned, embarrassed frustration washing over him; he could never quite tell when Bill was being serious. “I – I’m sorry, I know I’m not living up to expectations, after all you chose me to act as my muse – you must’ve expected more of me, and -“

By Bill’s shrill laughter Ford realised with humiliating regret that, once again, he’d misinterpreted the social situation again.

“Sixer, sixer, I’m kidding – relax. It’s the only way we’ll ever get this thing finished. It’s not a problem with your mathematics, it’s _you_.”

“Me?” Ford felt slightly offended. Bill sensed it easily. He did have the advantage of being omnipotent.

“I can’t help you through this one, is what I mean. All your info is right, so are your methods. It’s how you’re applying them, it’s like you’re trying to channel the disorganised chaos that is your mind onto paper. Math is supposed to be organised and logical, Sixer.”

“So… you’re saying my _feelings_ are getting in the way of this project being completed?”

“Don’t phrase it so unscientifically. But essentially yes. Third dimensional beings are so _primitive_ , with your ‘feelings’ and your ‘morals’.” Was he half joking again? “I mean, I’d happily remove them for you.”

It was scarily tempting, Ford nearly considered it. He caught himself on and shook his head frantically. “No, no, don’t be ridiculous.” Bill cackled to himself. “So, this emotional… distraction…?”

“Surely you’re the one that knows all about that.” He snapped his fingers, and a velvety chez lounge appeared, and he invited Ford to sit down. “So, sixer, what’s bothering you?” He made an enormous amount of effort to sound like he cared.

Ford reluctantly took a seat. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Don’t waste my time, Sixer, we both know you can’t lie to an omnipotent being.”

He didn’t try and argue back and point out that it would be much easier for Bill to just read his thoughts directly, he knew that would be avoiding the point of the exercise. What was important here was Ford admitting it to himself. Anxious about not wanting to waste Bill’s time, he sighed, rubbing his temples. “I was reminded of… troubling events, and it’s somewhat distracting.”

“Troubling events?” He asked, like he didn’t know.

“Fiddleford – while we work he often likes to keep the television on, you know, for background noise and…” Ford frowned, chewing a lip. “You remember me telling you about that incident with my brother a few years back? Well I haven’t heard from him since and I don’t really know how he’s been doing and – well -”

“Spit it out, IQ.”

“I saw him on TV, on an advert; must be a nationwide thing because I assume he’s nowhere near Oregon. But, well, he looked a lot different to how I remembered him, more facial hair and… well I’m sure you know how humans age. It just caught me off guard, seeing him there, and it reminded me of how – how guilty I feel, I suppose. I thought I could control my emotions, distract myself with the machine and you and… - I guess in the end I’m still just a mortal that’s overly bothered by events that will ultimately be trivial.”

Bill leant back mid-air, closing his eye and crossing his stubby legs. “Certainly your insignificant human problems are amusing to someone who knows how negligible someone’s happiness is. But, luckily for you I get that it’s completely unavoidable for you primitive, three-dimensional beings. Also, you’re a vital part of changing this dimension as you know it – your feelings, though still trivial, are probably the most significant ones on the planet, in this universe, at the current moment, seeing as what you do will affect all of reality. If you can’t get into the right mind-set that would be a major problem for us both.”

He opened his eye, looking directly at Ford. The stare felt hot, violating, like all of his most guarded cerebrations were being thoroughly analysed. “Looks like you need a hand to get you out of that slump, huh? Good job we’re in the Mindscape.”

Bill extended his hand, inviting Ford to shake it much like they did upon making a deal. From the lack of blue flames engulfing the tiny black fingers, Ford concluded this was just a regular handshake. He took the small hand in his own, shaking it confidently, and the hand inside his own shifted and began to _grow_. Ford watched, mesmerized as Bill’s form shifted from his geometric appearance, limbs lengthening and thickening, torso stretching, neck growing. The only thing that remained was his hat, even his defining eye had shifted over, making room for a second that was concealed under an eyepatch.

“A human form…?” Ford asked in disbelief, the hand that the very human Bill still held was now uncomfortably clammy, and despite the barrier of the glove Bill wore, he was so much more embarrassed than he would be if Bill was still a simple geometric shape.

“Figured I’d mix things up for you, Sixer. Normal rules still apply, I can’t appear out of the Mindscape without a human to inhabit, but nothing’s stopping me simply appearing to be human.” He smirked, and, despite a previous lack of facial features, it still looked familiar; that narrowed, mischievous gaze had finally found the missing grin it’d needed all this time.

“But how will a human form _help?_ ”

He chuckled, eyebrows raised. “Oh, I assure you it will help. Sadly, it feels like you’re waking up. Don’t stay awake too long.” Bill finally let go of Ford’s hand, only half-mockingly wave him goodbye.

 

_But I don’t_ want _to wake up,_ Ford thought as he felt himself jerk awake, sitting bolt upright completely refreshed. He had no idea what time he’d fallen asleep, but it looked like it was still the early hours of the morning. Not that it mattered, he and Fiddleford barely understood the concept of sleep patterns anymore.

Groaning, he got out of bed and tried to get himself somewhat organised to go back downstairs to resume work. A wave of grumpiness had consumed him, probably because of the unsatisfactory end to his ‘dream’. He was aching to sleep again, just to see what Bill had in store for him, though he knew even if he knocked himself out with sleeping pills, Bill simply wouldn’t let it be that easy.

Before long he’d resumed his position in front of the familiar machine. Fiddleford was still up, and had brought him a coffee. He noticed that Ford, though a little better than before, was still working unprogressively. Something had to be done, and he had an inkling as to what it might be.

Contrast to his co-worker, Fiddleford had been blessed with both academic intelligence and social awareness. This insight had allowed him to pin-point the source of Ford’s problems correctly, and he knew something needed to be done about Ford’s brother. And what better way to get over guilt from the past than to face it head on and reconcile?

So, while the ignorant Ford had dropped off to sleep, Fiddleford had done some digging on Stanley Pines, approximated his current location and narrowed it down to an exact address after a few phone calls, and promptly prepared a postcard with the most picturesque areas of Gravity Falls in a collage on the front. Needless to say, it was a disappointing collage, but it would have to do. He scrawled a message in something he hoped resembled Ford’s scruffy script, asking Stanley to come to Gravity Falls as soon as possible, as help was needed. He felt guilty signing it with Ford’s name; the first thing Stanley would hear from his brother in over five years would be a lie.

Postcard tucked into his inside pocket ready for posting, Fiddleford composed himself now attempting to prepare for something that would be a lot harder than lying to Ford’s brother. He’d heard his co-worker returning to the basement to his work, and he knew what he had to do. He brought a coffee over to soften the blow.

Tentatively, the man approached Ford from behind, clearing his throat. Ford continued to work. “Hello, Fiddleford. Sorry about that, I’m back to work now.”

“No, no, you need more rest than you’re getting right now Ford. You’re kind of obsessed with this project, don’t you think?” He tried, weakly.

“No more than one of my normal obsessions with work.”

Fiddleford didn’t try to argue. “Look, Ford, this is hard for me but – well – this research, this entire idea, is this really a good one?”

Ford looked up from his work, placed down his pen and turned around, tired eyes unapologetically confronting Fiddleford. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“No matter how much you deny it we both know that you’ve never been as _absorbed_ by something like this before. You’re barely the Ford I knew in college; Ford half the time when you’re not around here working you’re locked up in some room ‘sleeping’, now, I don’t know what might be going on in there but I’m highly certain you’re not sleeping – and this is in no way euphemistic.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Look, for a while now this research and your attitude has been kind of ominous, and it’s put me off this whole idea. I did a look into the mathematics, interpreted it in a completely different way, and well, the result looks a lot… _different_ to the one you’re telling me you’re working towards, and I don’t like it. I’m sorry but from here on, you’re going to have to work on this without me.”

“Fiddleford, you’re not walking out on me, are you?” Reality had hit Ford, eyes wide and panicked. “You can’t be serious…? You’re the only thing keeping me _grounded_ here!”

“Don’t worry, Ford, I’ve – look I’m working on getting someone over and they can help you-”

“What do you think I’m mentally ill or something, have you sent over a doctor to try and work out what disturbed ideas are going on in my head!?”

“No, that’s not what I mean, Ford. Look, I just can’t be here anymore, I don’t feel comfortable with the areas that we’re researching, I don’t want to be part of something that could potentially be harmful.”

Though Ford didn’t seem to be listening anymore, he was focusing on attempting to quell his shaking hands, biting his lip angrily, unable to express the bitterness of the betrayal.

“You don’t deserve this, Ford, don’t do this to yourself. I can’t tell you where to direct your research, but advice from an academic to another academic, from a friend to a friend, I think you should stop this _now_. If you ever need me for help on other, less dangerous projects, give me a call. Goodbye, Stanford, I’m sorry.”

And he was gone.

With nothing grounding him, the panic took over Ford. His rising temperature added to the increasing claustrophobia, every little noise suddenly amplified to ear-splitting frequencies; simple hums of machines were now cries of anguish ringing in his ears. Sight was too complicated, he squeezed his eyes shut, curling up, protected only by his shaking limbs, and the quickening heartbeat throbbing in his ears was the only measure of passing time to keep him just grounded enough. It was all too much, Fiddleford, Stanley, his failed research; the three ominous walls were relentless as they approached, trapping him in a perfectly claustrophobic triangular prison.

Arms laced their way around his tense shoulders. Oh, so he’d fallen asleep. Ford didn’t look up as Bill’s newly grown arms enveloped his shaking form, more gently than he could’ve imagined the demon to ever be. He soothed Ford, running his fingers through the matted hair, caressing his vulnerable, fragile form, slowly letting Ford loosen up, relaxing very slowly, until eventually he steadily turned around to fully return the comforting embrace.

“As if you need him,” Bill sneered. “You’re by my side, Sixer. He didn’t know what he was talking about it being _dangerous,_ the real danger is ignorant human beings. And you, my pretty little brilliant mind, are not ignorant. Need I remind you who your muse is?”

Ford melted into Bill’s hold, clinging to him as exactly what he needed to hear was whispered into his ear.

Though this dispelled Ford’s anxieties, Bill could sense some sadness remained (what a _petty_ emotion). A brief peek into Ford’s mind informed him of the perfect way to work this to getting Ford back in a positive mind-set.

“You don’t need to remind me – sorry, I suppose just doubting you is quite an insult. Of course an omnipotent being would know better than me. I don’t have anything I have the right to be upset about – you’re here guiding me.”

“Exactly,” Bill repeated, “I’m here,” he leaned in, tilting Ford’s chin up gently, “ _guiding_ you.” He finished by pressing an unexpected, chaste kiss to Ford’s lips. It worked its magic.

Ford stared blankly at Bill, blinking. Did that really happen? Why did it happen? Ford nearly began panicking again as he overanalysed, but then he realised; there was nothing to fear. Bill had just displayed that Ford doubting himself was a pointless, somewhat insulting exercise. If Bill kissed him, it must be right. It was nice, having confidence in something being the right thing.

“Stay in the Mindscape tonight, Sixer. You’ll sleep better, I’ll ensure it.” Bill promised. It was the first time Ford had heard him sounding completely earnest about something. Ironic, a dream demon promising a good sleep.

Effective, though, as when Ford woke in the morning, despite the upset of the night previously, and the awfully uncomfortable sitting position he’d dropped off in, the man had never felt more upbeat, echoes of last night’s encouragement still on his mind.

After a few hours of work, he’d made more rapid progress than he had done all month.


	2. The Lesser

For all his life they’d been Stanford and Stanley; the Pines twins, the Stan brothers, the losers. They’d both been okay with that, they didn’t need other people to like them. They just needed each other, and up until their eighteenth year that’s exactly what they had.

The only proof of the close relationship with Ford he’d once had was the picture of

But now Stanley sat on the side of a quiet road letting the bustle of an unfamiliar city pass him by. The only proof of the close relationship with Ford he’d once had was the picture of the two of them after his first victory in boxing which he kept folded in an otherwise empty wallet.

Five years, and not a _word_ from him. For a short, ignorant period Stanley had optimistically kidded himself that Ford would soon open his eyes; his brother would rescue him from the financial wreck he’d gotten himself into after being thrown out of the Pine’s household. Like the ache of a failed trust-fall, Stanley had realised it’d been naïve of him to assume this. The only knocks on motel doors he got these days were people demanding their money back, money he couldn’t give.

This is often why he found himself lounging on street corners, even in bad weather. Though he wasn’t totally homeless yet – thanks to a few understanding motel owners – people knew where to find him when he was at ‘home’, and he knew a few too many folks who got a little heated when demanding for their money back. No one in the world of lending money was afraid of a little violent prompting in order to get what they were owed back.

The final few dollar bills wedged into his back pocket burned his skin through his dirty jeans. Head in his hands, he willed himself to not remember the circumstances which he’d received the taboo income that’d seen him through the last month of his life.

Naturally, such effort to distract himself only let the image play out perfectly behind his clenched-shut eyes; their grinning faces, how he’d been backed into a corner by five of them, all demanding the repayment for loans he couldn’t even remember borrowing, the slimy, knowing tone to their voices as they suggested an _alternate_ payment method. It was either that or be beaten within an inch of his life, and he couldn’t afford hospital fees, so he’d dropped to his knees, barely flinching as they dropped their pants, surrounding him. He’d sucked them all off, some twice, quite well apparently based on the generous tips they’d left. It’d felt like millions at the time. Once the brief glow of earning some form of money had worn off, and he realised he’d only earned little over twenty dollars, he was engulfed by an ugly shame for days; even now the debris of disgrace clung to him.

Stealing was even preferable to prostitution; never again did he want to be belittled, humiliated, used like that again. Though theft could only get him so far; he did need actual cash in order to get petrol or _something_ to at least escape the prison of a state he resided in right now. He’d desperately searched for jobs after he’d been driven out of every sales opportunity he could find, but no one would hire a man who smelled as bad as him, even though he knew it was a pointless act he still continued to apply to vacancies. No one invited him back for an interview.

He needed a fucking cigarette.

“How much?”

A figure slid up to him. Everything, the body language, the off putting stare, the lingering stench of smoke, set Stan on edge; he knew exactly what this man wanted.

But he couldn’t answer; half of him was screaming to demand enough money to allow him leave _tonight_ , but the inevitable disgust this would cause was enough to put the other half of him off the idea.

Impatiently the man moved in closer, hands curling around Stanley’s shoulders and neck in attempt at being seductive. “I haven’t got all fucking night, whore.”

“Fifty,” Stanley blurted, fearing the man getting violent. He hadn’t meant to suggest something so high.

“For head?” The man looked bewildered, disgusted even, at the suggestion. “I was promised if I found a scruffy looking chubby kid hanging around, he’s so fucking desperate he’d do it for a dollar. Seems you’ve let your head get inflated after one successful night. I could go and get a real fucking whore, a _female_ one, for half that!”

“Thirty,” Stanley had to try hard not to stutter.

That seemed to be less offensive. “Twenty and I’ll tip you if you do a decent job.”

That was good enough for him. He wasn’t in a position to be picky – his pride had been doomed ever since he’d sold himself the first time, what was there to lose now? He dropped to his knees, and instinctively flinched as the man swiftly moved to unzip his jeans. He wasn’t afraid of too many people gawking; they were in a very empty street in the rougher parts of town. There were a few obscene calls as groups of young men passed, but he could deal with that.

It was over quickly; all it took was a slow build up from stroking to sucking, and a sudden intensive blast of bobbing and he’d came right into Stan’s mouth without warning. Only now did he realise he probably should’ve demanded a condom to be worn. Then, in a desperate show to try and earn his tip, Stan pulled away, showing the man his load still held in his mouth, swallowing it slowly like he’d seen pornstars do.  He’d never understood why it was such an arousing image, but apparently it worked, as the man bit his lip, graciously fishing out the promised thirty dollars and a measly tip of five. He practically threw them down at Stanley, before pulling up his trousers again and darting away quickly, muttering to himself about having to tell a few of his friends.

Stanley barely had the resolve to stand up. It wasn’t like the activity had been tiring, but mentally it was nearly too much to process. He was so disappointed in himself. Why did it have to resort to this? Because he’d made one careless mistake when he was eighteen? Because he was an emotional teenager, who hit a table in his misery of being the least favourite brother and accidentally broke a machine he knew nothing about? And his punishment was a life narrowly avoided being beaten to death if a debt-collector found him, and walking the streets for money for basic supplies for living?

And still nothing, no contact from anyone for _years_.

Very slowly, Stanley willed himself to his feet, his growling stomach the only thing prompting him to actually move from his sorry spot. On the way back to the motel he’d treat himself to a cheap hot pasty and a coffee, he told himself.

The bakeries were all long closed, so he made do with the cheapest fast food he could find. The walk home was abysmal, having nothing to distract him from the blossoming contempt for himself. Even the food was infected; it’d been bought with the wretched money after all. Slowly, aimlessly, he continued forward, trying to ignore the slight twitching of his left eye, and the occasional flinching if a stranger passed him by a little closer than usual.

He got back to the motel, unsure what time it was or indeed how much time he’d even spent out. At least he could attempt to relax here, not many people would stoop to breaking down a door to find him. Here was a place of reliability, of predictability.

Apparently not as predictable as he’d thought; as he shuffled inside he nearly lost his footing after stepping on a smooth sheet of paper that’d been shoved through the letterbox. Dread filled him, had they begun sending him threatening letters – the ones you see on dramas that’ve been written out of newspaper cuttings? Reluctantly stooped to pick it up, only to have the first pleasant surprise in months, in _years_.

He hated the fact that finding a postcard signed by his brother filled him with as much relief as he did. Ideally it would have evoked a sense of triumph, of winning that his brother had reached out to _him_ , had needed _him_ first; even Stan, in his hopeless state of giving head to survive, had not stooped to begging his brother for help. Alas, this was not an ideal situation, and from under twenty words - “Come to Gravity Falls as soon as possible, I need your help.” - Stanley found himself dropping to his knees, biting back tears. He hadn’t been forgotten, he wasn’t dead to Ford, he wasn’t completely useless after all.

It didn’t take long to count all of the money he had – thank _god_ he’d agreed to the man’s offer from earlier – he scoured every corner of the motel, even though he’d done this night after night in hopes he might’ve misplaced a cent or two. The search provided a single penny, but it was something. But the total was not enough to get him down to Gravity Falls, nowhere near enough.

With new resolve, he walked over to the tiny mirror, examining the sorry state he was in. There was one way he knew of to get money quickly. If he’d been approached twice for a job he hadn’t wanted to do, surely with _intent_ he could find a few more customers, make a little more money? He was beyond caring about his pride now, the shame from before forgotten. Now he had a reason to, it was humiliating, but it wasn’t demoralising.

Soon, he’d fixed himself up the best he could. He honestly couldn’t remember a moment where he’d put more effort into his appearance, maybe not even when he’d dated Carla. He didn’t look _good_ , per say, more passing considering he was a semi-homeless man who was surviving on about a third of the calories you were meant to intake daily. That probably didn’t matter much to men seeking his services. As long as he could offer quick, cheap relief, that was all that mattered.

He hadn’t been in the motel for more than twenty minutes before he set out again, now guided by newfound motivation. It was spineless of him; the very brother who’d caused his soul to get so hopelessly lost had given him purpose again – if Ford requested help, every fragment of Stanley’s existence ached to provide it, even if the feeling clearly wasn’t mutual.

 

* * *

 

It’d taken a week of streetwalking, but he was finally here.

The low temperature had Stanley shivering through his thin coat, hands buried deep in his pockets still trembling, though not wholly from the chill. He stood before his brother’s god forsaken house, astounded that this moment was actually happening. Surely he should feel elated – inspired - _triumphant_ that he’d made it here against all odds, proud that the underdog had pulled through again.

He just felt kind of bitter, really. Looking at such a big house, such a warm and comfortable house simply reminded him of just how his adored brother had lived the past years in comfort, while he was left to the streets. His lip curled at the cute porch and the quaint rickety feeling of the house, hating that he _liked_ it, that he’d spent all this time, effort and pride to get here to rescue his sorry ass. What did he even need help with this urgently?

Despite the sour thoughts, he had to admit he still felt uneasy yet somewhat excited as to what was coming next. Five years, it would have been, finally he’d get to see his brother.

Gingerly stepping onto the porch, he rapped on the door thrice before taking a hesitant step back. Now he waited.

And waited.

What was taking the man so long? Was he _out?_ Stanley couldn’t remember a situation where Ford had been _out_ , where would his brother _go?_ Had university changed him that much? Was the man even inside this house even Ford? Was there even a man inside this house!?

The irrational string of questions was broken off by a sound of movement from the upper level of the house. He’d been sleeping, then? Stanley frowned, it was the middle of the afternoon; even his sleep pattern hadn’t reached this level of chaos.

Sure enough, a few moments later the door was opened hesitantly – Stanley suddenly panicked, unsure where to look, down at his feet? At the face of the door-opener? He settled for flicking between both – and there behind the wooden door stood Ford; healthy, young and well-rested.

Stanley couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually made eye contact with anyone.

“W-what…!?” was all Ford could manage, utterly perplexed. “This – I – this – this wasn’t part of the plan! I – shit -”

A pause.

“Wh- _plan?_ Wasn’t part of the _plan?_ What do you mean, ‘what’!?” Dread had infected Stanley again, his stomach flipping over and over. He pulled out the worn postcard, there was no attempt to control his quivering hands. “Then why did I get _this_ through my door?”

Ford snatched up the postcard desperately, hoping it would provide an explanation. After a skim over he tensed, teeth and fists clenching, an ugly rage blossoming on his face. “Fiddleford.”

“What? Who’s Fiddleford – Ford what the _hell_ is going on?”

Stoney faced, Ford looked at him properly now. “My fri- colleague, well ex-colleague now, he – he was worried about me. When resigning he told me he’d sent for ‘help’ for me. I assumed he meant some kind of doctor. Now it appears he meant,” A stagnant pause, “ _you._ ”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Stanley’s voice was rising now, “Are you seriously - hand on heart – trying to tell me it wasn’t you who called me here – that you don’t even _want_ me here. That I’m meant to go back to – to that life – those fucking streets – you can’t seriously be telling me –”

It was too much for him. He was too confused, too overwhelmed. What the hell was he supposed to feel? To do!? He broke down into tears of sheer stress - he’d already sucked twenty dicks to be here for apparently no reason whatsoever other than to be a burden - it wasn’t like he had any pride left to stop him crying in front of his brother. Violently shaking, his legs could barely keep him up anymore. It was cold. He needed a smoke. He needed a shower. He needed something to eat. It was really cold.

And the next thing he knew he was coming round, covered in a thick blanket, sitting on a comfortable sofa, and he was _warm_. And calm. Had he passed out before? He had no clue, but apparently this was his brother’s way of saying he could stay for a while.

It pained him to know he was relieved by this.

After a short while, Ford returned, asking him how he was, if he needed anything.

“A shower, probably.”

“I’ll go and turn it on. You can stay here for tonight. I’ll look about arranging some transport for getting you back to wherever you came from in the morning, I suppose.”

“Oh right… Yeah. Back to where I came from.” Stanley’s heart dropped.

A welcoming home was obviously too much to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone’s wondering why Ford saw Lee on the TV from his ad, but he’s obviously not in a position where he’s a salesman right now, it’s because the add was a rerun from years ago ;3 forgive me for the mini plothole and kinda weak cover up ;3
> 
> But oh my gosh I received so many lovely comments on the first chapter! Thank you again to anyone who's commented/kudo'd because it really means the world, you make writing this fic worth it. <3
> 
> On another note, I probably won't usually be as prompt uploading chapters seeing as it's the middle of term, and I'm desperately putting the finishing touches to my cosplay for a con next week, so my priority is getting that done. Chapter three should HOPEFULLY be out soon.


	3. The Dependent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I won't usually warn for things in individual chapters, but because I haven't mentioned it before, there'll be descriptions of self harm and a nsfw scene in this chapter. Stay safe! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't usually warn for things in individual chapters, but because I haven't mentioned it before, there'll be descriptions of self harm and a nsfw scene in this chapter. Stay safe! <3

When he’d opened the door to see his ragged brother nervously standing on the other side, the worst part of Ford - that desolate, acrid creature within him – was tempted to send his brother packing, the filthy traitor, and he should just return upstairs to sleep, to continue that wonderful dream he’d been having.

He’d been in the Mindscape as he was most of the time recently, if he wasn’t working on the portal. Ever since Fiddleford’s departure and his little breakdown, Ford had been pleasantly surprised by how _smoothly_ everything seemed to be going. Progress was swift and Bill was more than impressed, as he reminded him every time they saw one another. Bill was in his human form more often than not now, and it was clear without telekinesis that Ford was overjoyed by that fact, and Ford soon realised that was probably _why_ Bill was so frequently human-passing these days; he was so good at… providing? Ford didn’t really know what to call it, but Bill effectively acted as a neutraliser of negative emotion – when Ford felt upset, Bill was there with words of comfort – when he was uninspired, Bill had the perfect equation to push him in the right direction - when he was lonely, Bill was there with attention and kisses that were frequent enough to keep him hoping for more, but sparse enough that they were still a surprising treat when they arrived.

Those _kisses_ – Ford blushed every time he thought of them – they were perfectly modest, almost surprisingly so for a _demon_ , but they were so thrilling, probably because this was the first experience of contact of a romantic sort up until this point in Ford’s life. He was convinced Bill had no interest in romance at all, he was above all that, which just made it more enticing, the fact that Bill was providing the affection he needed when he needed it, all for the sake of keeping his spirits up. He didn’t realise anyone could _care_ so much.

It’d been so lovely, too, the time he’d spent right before he’d been woken up by Stanley. He’d been sitting with Bill in one of the plump, lush chairs Bill seemed to have taken a liking to, Bill sitting in it, Ford comfortable on the floor at his feet, leaning back into Bill’s legs as his hair was stroked softly. Bill had asked him to talk through everything Ford had done on the portal so far, so Ford had slowly started explaining the whole process, just to make sure he had it all clear, and that he knew what he had to do next. He noticed when he reported something done especially well, he was rewarded with a particularly tender stroke.

He’d just finished explaining the possible directions to explore next, when they both heard the knock echoing through Ford’s mind, making the entire Mindscape seem to ripple slightly, like still water upset by a pebble.

“A visitor? Huh, looks like that’s started to wake you up,” Bill said, frowning. “I wanted to tell you a few more things about the portal – it’ll have to wait for when you’re next here.”

Disappointed couldn’t even begin to describe Ford. He’d been so _content_ …

Bill sensed it and patted his lap in response. “Quickly, come here before you wake up.”

Ford got to his feet, unsure _how_ exactly to sit on Bill’s lap without making it awkward. Bill rolled his eyes - probably at unnecessary human manners - and guided Ford to sit on his knee, forcing Ford to awkwardly straddle his lap. Bill didn’t care. Ford, however, was burning with embarrassment though could already feel himself slipping into awareness. He willed himself to stay asleep, just a _little_ longer.

“Well done, Sixer,” Bill caught Ford’s chin between his forefinger and thumb, pulling him down for a longer kiss than usual. “It’s not every day an omnipotent demon can say he’s impressed. Keep up the good work.”

Another kiss, Ford responded back now, trying to hold the embrace for as long as possible – his efforts were in vain as he started awake - thoroughly disappointed at his state of consciousness, yet still dizzy with joy at the fact that _Bill_ was impressed with him, _Bill_ was kissing him – the most intelligent being he’d ever met, would ever meet - had not only acknowledged him but on some level seemed to _care_ about him. It was flattery to the highest degree.

And such a perfect moment had been ruined by whatever pillock was at his door at this ungodly hour of the – whatever bitter complaints Ford might’ve had would have been cut off by the realisation that it was in fact, mid-afternoon, and a perfectly reasonable time for someone to be calling at the door.

Hence why he’d been so off-guard when he’d found the rude interruption to be caused by none other than Stanley Pines, the last person he’d expected at his door on a weekday afternoon. But, luckily for Stanley in his sorry state, the wicked, selfish intentions that had initially sprung to mind had yet to completely poison Ford. He couldn’t send Stanley packing in the state he was in – no, he hadn’t _expected_ his brother, and he certainly wasn’t feeling too welcoming at the moment, but he’d have to deal with it.

As sympathetically as he could, he assisted Stanley inside, letting him calm himself down on the sofa while Ford went to get a hold of himself elsewhere.

He retreated up to his room, steadily becoming more aware of the re-awakened guilt that was blooming inside him once again. Breath quickened. He thought back to the circumstances where he and Stanley had last spoke. He chewed his lip. The anger he’d felt at the betrayal of a brother he thought had been supportive – but did that _really_ justify not only Ford, but their entire family, completely cutting ties with Stanley? Ford had always assumed his brother had been living a relatively comfortable life; he had to be! There had to be some other explanation as to why Stanley looked so scruffy, so… _homeless_. Surely Stanley would have called him, asked for some _help_ if he’d been that desolate?

Breaths were short. His chest felt tight.

He tried to calm himself down again – paced around the room a little - a brief glance of himself in the mirror and it was all back to square one; the reflection was another reminder of Stanley, how _different_ his supposedly identical twin was. Ford hated to think what drastic environments could cause such a dramatic change to his appearance. The panic rose once more as dramatic fantasies possessed him.

He needed to calm down _quickly._ Perhaps meditation would work? That was an opportunity to talk with Bill… maybe he might know what to do?

No – this was a _human_ problem and a human could deal with it – he didn’t want to give Bill more reason to see him as completely incapable and in need of spoon-feeding. It would be ok, he could handle something as little as this…!

“I’m done in the shower – do you have, uh, anything I could wear? I was kind of hoping I could was my clothes while I was still here, too.” Stanley had appeared in his room after a brief knock, causing Ford to jump out of his skin.

“Oh – yes – sure – here,” he said, brain not fully connecting the points in his mind as he went to the wardrobe and handed his brother a jumper and a clean pair of trousers. Stanley thanked him and retreated to get changed.

Alone again, he swallowed hard; there really was no escaping from Stanley while the man was here. He’d have to leave as soon as possible.

But, would that fix it? Surely now Ford’s ignorance had been shattered on the state of his brother’s living, wouldn’t it simply add to the pile of accumulated guilt he felt already for abandoning Stanley now he knew he clearly wasn’t living a very comfortable life? Would it not interfere with every waking moment - every attempt at working on the portal – the growing self-loathing at the neglect of his brother being the only thing he could focus on? Already his confidence was slipping, despite Bill nourishing it to flourish so well in the recent time they’d spent together.

In a weak attempt to calm himself down, Ford paced again, and decided to wet his face in the bathroom. Water could not wash off this mood, but perhaps would give him a fresh view of what to do. He stared into the mirror again, not quite sure if he was looking at himself.

How had he dealt with problems like this before?

The recent confrontation with Fiddleford rose to mind with a sickening sensation of strengthened guilt. He remembered the anxieties after seeing his brother on the television advert, and how drastically that had reduced his progress. What had he done next?

All he could really remember was himself panicking. But, after thinking harder, he was reminded of Bill’s comforting words, how he’d forced Ford to face his problems and actually admit _why_ he was upset and then figure out what to _do_ because of it. And oh, those comforting embraces…

Before he could get too distracted, the bravest part of him was already carrying himself across the hall to the spare room. The door had been knocked before he’d given it proper thought, considered the possible outcomes of such a reckless action. Stanley opened the door, matching Ford’s surprise.

Ford cleared his throat, suddenly very lost. He’d never had difficulty talking to his own brother, but now... “You – uh – well. I didn’t give you the most pleasant welcoming. I was merely very… surprised to see you. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t feel _any_ differently about what happened in the past.”

“You’re still stuck on that?” Stanley’s initial optimism at the appearance of Ford had quickly been killed, a familiar bitter laugh dancing off his tongue in its place. “Ever heard of an accident, Ford?”

“You ruined my future, Stanley! I don’t think you understand the scale of disaster that your selfish actions brought about!”

Stanley could only stare at his brother with self-depreciatingly sour sneer of a smile on his face.  “Oh, no I’m pretty sure I understand the scale of the effects of me making one little mistake. Yep, constantly being reminded about how much of a fuck-up I am, I mean it doesn’t fucking help when your family cut all ties with you just because the Favourite Son’s career was made a little more difficult.”

Ford met Stanley’s challenging gaze. “You have no idea what that ordeal put me through.”

Poisoned chortles erupted from Stanley. Eyes wide he stared his brother down, unbelieving of Ford’s sheer _blindness_. “Oh – oh – yes of course, I’m so sorry – what it put _you_ through. You don’t know the half of it, Sixer, not a fucking _fraction_ of my side of the story. What _I’ve_ been through, so don’t you dare preach to me about ruined futures because that’s about the only thing I’m confident I’ve ever beaten you in.”

Ford didn’t seem convinced, but he was certainly nervous. He took a step back, apprehensive of his somewhat manic brother. There was a silence for a while, the two allowing themselves to recover from the crushing tension. Ford broke the silence.

“So where are we going from here?”

“You tell me. I have no money left to leave, and this problem is ultimately your fault so you fix it.”

Ford recoiled at that. No money left to leave. It’d taken money to get here - by the sounds of it money he hadn’t actually _had_ – how desperate had Stanley been to escape the life he’d left behind?

“… If – if you’re willing to stay out of my way while I continue my research, I will allow you to stay here while you come up with some kind of plan to get yourself… back on your feet.”

It seemed to be the only way around this difficult situation; yes, Stanley’s presence would be distracting, but after everything Ford had seen of his brother, everything he’d been told in such a cold, sour tone, Stanley would be more distracting to him absent. At least here his mind could be at rest, and he didn’t have to blame anything on himself.

Stanley looked relieved at the suggestion. He quickly mended his expression into a more neutral one, and cleared his throat. “Uh, thanks, I’ll be out of your way as soon as I can.”

The two nodded at each other, awkwardly in-synch, and parted ways, Ford to attempt continuing work, Stanley to attempt understanding his stirred-up mess of emotions.

Hours later, Ford had yet to properly compose himself.

At first it had been okay, he’d decided to go and distract himself with his research. However, what with his recent reality-check, and the inability to properly engage with his work, his mind wondered about like a curious child. Scenarios, each more horrifically improbably than the last, continued to flash through his mind about his brother’s time spent alone. It was his fault, it was all his fucking fault. He knew it was, and he knew it right from the moment their parents had kicked Stanley out. He was just too proud to ever admit he knew it was his fault. It was too late to apologise now.

The guilt continued to eat away at Ford, all hope of being productive had been utterly demolished. It was a struggle to hold off the impending panic attack, let alone even begin thinking about correcting his incorrect equation.  The numbers on the page suddenly made no sense, he flicked through pages of his work – was this _really_ right? No, none of it made _sense_ it was all wrong – incorrect – from the very first equation it had been ridden with errors, mathematical failures built on overly ambitious ideas. Bill should’ve chosen someone like Fiddleford; he was at least as clever as Ford, and didn’t allow himself to get so self-destructive.

He stared at the calculations, overcome with shame that he’d actually shown any of these to Bill, that he’d ever thought the omnipotent entity had actually ever cared for him. It’d all been pity; mercy for the ignorant human who thought he could actually effect the universe.

Flakes of paper drifted to the ground, the months of calculations ripped up in seconds in Ford’s blind rage. He stood amongst the fragments of his mathematics, nauseous and shaky. He’d started crying at some point, and only realised he’d been shouting his frustrations aloud when he realised how raw his throat was. Good job the basement was completely sound-proof.

This was nowhere near enough. Everything around him was a mortifying reminder of all that time he’d spent on such an infantile project, how unworthy he was for his muse.

His tools were soon in his hands, and he stood inside the skeleton of the machine that was slowly being built. Quickly, messily he took his wrench, all but pulling the intricate pieces of engineering apart, violently denting, scraping, destroying the metal framework. The electronics were promptly ripped out - a few static sparks of protest and they were completely useless – he cut the wires clumsily into tiny pieces, snapping motherboards in half ruthlessly. He didn’t even bother to pick up his tool again, overcome with floods of tears he helplessly pulled at the welded metal, attempting to destroy any proof of his humiliation.

Everything felt raw, his hands were cut from jagged edges of metal, his throat ached from screaming and crying, his eyes had been rubbed at too many times and the skin was flaking slightly at the cracks of his eyes, he ached for sleep, but he couldn’t face Bill again, not in this pitiful state, not like this. He had to fix it all, he could only go back when it was perfectly complete.

Suddenly, numbness.

He’d experienced this sensation before; it was comforting, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on where he’d remembered it from. It felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, like he was watching himself. Then he heard a voice and immediately understood what was happening.

“What the _HELL_ do you think you’re doing!?” His own voice erupted. Ford could feel his whole body tensing up, he was being restrained. Of course, how could he forget the experience of Bill taking over his body?

_I-it’s – it’s all wrong – everything – I – I need to fix it._

“So you thought you’d just go and _destroy_ all of our hard work!? Do you know how long it’ll take to rectify this!?” Came his own voice in reply to his thoughts.

_No – I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to set us back – I just thought, if it was – it was all incorrect!_

“IQ if everything we’d done had been incorrect don’t you think I would have fucking _told_ you!?” It was odd being so afraid of his own voice, dripping with such unfamiliar contempt.

He couldn’t properly process his thoughts, the panic took over, even in attempts to rectify his mistakes – the chance of impressing Bill was even further out of his reach - it was useless; everything he touched just crumbled.

“IQ, nothing you did was wrong. Everything was right, every single tiny calculation. And you’ve just ripped it all up, and destroyed half of it. What the fuck possessed you to do something so _stupid?”_

Infected with shame, Ford managed to overpower Bill – who had been focusing less on restraining Ford now they were talking – and began helplessly clawing at himself, any open flesh he pinched and scratched, as if having some kind of violent fit. He needed this pain, he needed something to remind him of what shame he’d brought upon himself, on his entire species, on Bill. Scratches weren’t enough; he reached for the plyers he’d used to destroy his electronics previously, poising them to pierce his skin.

Suddenly his muscles tensed again, Bill had managed to regain control, but Ford wasn’t done yet, with an oddly confident rush of willpower he challenged Bill’s control, momentarily overpowering the demon with just enough time to attempt plunging the plyers into the bare skin of his wrist. The pain was extraordinary for a split second.

Another second, and he realised he’d been completely forced out of his body; his spirit was floating above, watching ‘Ford’ yelp in pain as he pulled the plyers from his skin, throwing them to the side and nursing the beginnings of blood that poured from the deep wound. Bill looked sharply at Ford, the yellow, cat-like eyes boring into his literal soul.

Ford prepared himself for the wrath.

Instead came a comforting voice echoing around his mind.

_Sixer. Sixer, calm down. It’s okay, you’re not alone, I’m here with you._

Ford looked up, taken aback, to meet the now sincere, caring eyes of his body. The body’s mouth didn’t move as Bill spoke.

Suddenly he was submerged in darkness. Some manipulation of the Mindscape, Ford assumed. It was nice darkness, though, it felt oddly warm. Not infinitely expansive, or chokingly claustrophobic either. Simply nothing.

_You’re clever, at times you don’t feel like it, you’re human and you need to accept that sometimes you might not feel the full extent of the genius you have the potential of._ The thoughts seemed to echo around the darkness, Ford could feel his breathing slow, heart beat steadily dropping. _It’s okay, I’m willing to put up with the inconveniences of human lifestyle to be with you, to build this machine with you. You’re not wrong, and you’re not dumb. You’re just confused and overwhelmed, which is annoyingly normal for humans, but you’re better than them; you have me to help you get over your mortal disadvantages, remember?_

It all seemed so obvious. Of course he’d been overreacting, of course his work had been right; he had had Bill by his side this whole project, and that hadn’t changed. This was the two of them working together. He wasn’t _alone_ in this, it had been preposterous, stupid, to ever assume he had been.

_And you don’t need to pay your brother any mind. He can’t even begin to comprehend the tasks you’re working; if it comforts you, let him stay a while, assure yourself that you’re not doing anything wrong by letting him back into his old life. But he won’t interfere with your work; you won’t let him –_ I _won’t let him. He doesn’t understand how complicated you are, Sixer, that’s all. He’s angry because he doesn’t_ understand _._

Of course. That explained it all; why Stanley always got so frustrated and jealous, to the point where he’d even destroy Ford’s own future. Simple ignorance, and frustration of it. When he thought of it that way, he could forgive his pitiful brother with ease.

Now he was calmer, the darkness around him morphed, focusing into the familiar surroundings of the room the Mindscape often took the form of when he and Bill were spending time together. He must’ve been sent to sleep, as Bill’s human form shortly conjured its self on the plush armchair like usual. He flashed Ford a comforting, half pitiful smile, patting his lap, inviting him over.

Ford didn’t feel embarrassed anymore, not after everything he’d just done. He made his way over to Bill, thankful for the physical closeness as he climbed atop of his lap, straddling him innocently like before he’d been woken up by his brother.

“Perhaps I’ve been neglecting you a little; you need all the support you can get, Sixer. You’re exceeding expectations on the portal, and I can wholly say I’m impressed. We can restore what you destroyed easily with a few hours of work. There’s no need to worry, you’re intelligent, and that needs rewarding.”

Bill tilted Ford’s head down, leaning up to kiss his lips gently. “My pretty, clever boy. You work so hard, _so_ hard.” Another kiss, deeper. The tips of their tongues touched, teasingly Bill pulled away, only to tenderly press kisses down Ford’s neck, each one caught Ford’s breath, his heart jumping. This was new.

Fingers threaded their way through Ford’s locks, letting Bill position Ford exactly how he wanted him in order to get the perfect angle for each kiss. He continued to whisper endearments and compliments as his kisses grew longer, getting lower until he was forced to unbutton the beginnings of Ford’s shirt, pressing kisses to the nape of his neck. All the while the velvety ushers wound their way around Ford, melting him into an elated, submissive wreck.

He clung helplessly at Bill’s shirt as he felt the teeth gently nip at his skin, wondering if marks left on his nonphysical form might show through on his mortal body. Would there ever be a way for physical proof of his and Bill’s connection?

Bill didn’t need to ask if Ford was okay with this going further; even if he wasn’t omnipotent, every element of Ford’s existence was beginning him to continue. Though the demon had no personal interest in anything sexual, he was more than comfortable in sexual situations if it meant pleasing another being, or indeed even using it as a way to encourage someone. It hardly took a sexual genius to impress Ford, the man was as chaste as they came – and this was aided with them being surrounded by the Mindscape, where surroundings could be altered to meet needs or exaggerate sensations – it was so _easy_ for Bill to send him into shivering submission, reliant upon the pleasure Bill provoked with such skill.

Hands slipped southward, Ford grinded down into Bill’s touch almost involuntarily. All awkward fumble with clothing was conveniently skipped, due to the Mindscape’s handy features, and Ford, fully erect, was awkwardly jerking to meet Bill’s hovering touches.

“Calm it, Sixer,” Bill whispered tenderly. “I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you – I won’t let you – no need to be so desperate for it to be over so soon. Relax, try and hold back and let me do the work for you. You deserve a break.”

The only thing, it seemed, that could overpower the animalistic instinct that had taken over Ford, was a desire to obey and to please Bill. It looked like it took all of his conscious effort, but Ford took a deep breath, bit his lip to calm himself down, and closed his eyes, waiting for Bill to take over.

Initially the touches were coy, which nearly had Ford grinding again, but before long Bill had worked up to a skilfully flirtatious method of stroking, hand curling around the base, his tempo uneven as he worked over Ford’s length. Unsure of what sensation was coming next, Ford danced dangerously close to the edge of this metaphorical cliff of climax, yearning to be roughly thrusted off the edge into what he could only imagine was unmeasurable bliss. Each breath was short, eyes on the brink of opening to gaze at whatever expression Bill wore, each nerve in his body totally reliant upon Bill’s actions.

It was liberating, being so controlled like this. Ford simply _couldn’t_ worry about his own responsibilities or troubles in such a submissive position; he was to feel exactly what Bill made him feel. He could imagine such a lifestyle becoming addictive; only having to follow commands in order to please the being you worshipped, rather than facing the burdens of a creature with free will.

Bill could sense him edging a climax; the care of his temping touches increased, as he moved up again to capture Ford’s lips in another kiss, which Ford treated as a kind of life-line of passion, clinging to Bill’s lips like they were the only thing that would keep him sane. A gentle bite to Ford’s bottom lip, and a final tentative caress of his erection, and he yielded to Bill, overcome by the electrifying pleasure of the orgasm. Their kiss didn’t break for a second. Ford shuddered, weak from euphoria, limbs finally giving way as he collapsed into Bill’s strong hold, which caressed him gently - as if he was easily broken – and comforted Ford after such an intense experience.

“My pretty little genius,” Bill crooned, peppering kisses across Ford’s forehead. “You did so well. You have nothing to worry about - you just need to rely on me - I can ensure you’re feeling exactly how you _should_ be; completely contented with your existence. I’m watching over you, Sixer.”

A goofy smile spread across Ford’s face. This was perfect. He needed nothing more than the challenges his research provided and the stability Bill promised. Elated, he sighed, kissing Bill a final time, pouring all his gratitude into the embrace.

“Get some rest, Sixer, I’ll be here beside you. You don’t even need to worry about bad dreams.”

And he was right; Ford slept solidly, waking up totally refreshed despite his uncomfortable trousers and awkward position he’d gone to sleep in. The moment he regained consciousness in the material world he couldn’t help but feel bitterly betrayed. What he wouldn’t give to spend eternity in the Mindscape with Bill.

He stood up - sudden determination pouring from him – there was only one way that could become possible. He began repairing the portal immediately.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry this took a while to write haha, it was a tough chapter! And I was bogged down with the stressy preparation for a convention weekend last week, which was completely amazing.  
> In case you're wondering about Bill seeming to be totally out of character, don't worry he knows exactly how he's acting, and I don't think its really spoilers to say that this certainly isn't the whole truth coming from Bill.  
> Thank you for your kind comments so far. Please to continue pointing out any mistakes you think I've made, they're incredibly useful for improvement! <3  
> Thank you again <3


	4. The Reminiscing

_None of this would have happened if he hadn’t tried to kiss him._

_The young Stanley Pines knew first hand that his consistent mistakes would come to define him as a person. The small mistakes – tripping over a shoelace, misspelling a word, forgetting his homework – were just simple confirmation that he was so far behind his genius brother, while the larger mistakes – like breaking that damned science project – were proof of his failing as a person. He could deal with this prejudice from most people; as long as Ford stood by him - reassuring him that he wasn’t unintelligent, just unconventional – he had unwavering faith in his brother, so if Ford believed in him, he should believe in himself. This blind boost of self-confidence unknowingly induced by Ford acted as protection from the opinion of others for most of Stanley’s life._

_However that had all changed - surprisingly not with the moment Ford’s science project had been broken - but whenever he’d followed his instincts - which he placed unconditional trust in only to find them betraying him at the eleventh hour. The spell had been broken and Stanford suddenly saw his brother with the same doubt as the rest of the world._

_There was calm before their great storm, bliss even. Every day after class was their time to plan for their fanciful fantasy of a future. Ford would complete his perpetual motion machine, be offered a scholarship at his dream university, Stanley would get lucky and finally find a well-paying part time job and save for accommodation and living costs, and the two of them would pursue the next stage of their life on the journey to the West Coast._

_And, for the first part of the story, things did indeed seem to succeed seamlessly; Ford’s work on the supposed impossible perpetual motion was going exceedingly well (‘You just need to look at it in a new way, Stanley, that’ll stop it being impossible.’) and Stanley managed to find a job which paid over minimum wage for once. He piled in the hours to the point where he was losing sleep just to work, but it paid off, literally; within a few months he’d accumulated enough money to keep him going for a good while living independently._

_Though this false sense of perfection was fragile, and though neither mentioned it, both knew emotion was brewing under the still surface. Unspoken feelings led to suspicion from each brother, their heart strings only tautening as the term went on._

_Perhaps his gut feeling was hinting to elements of the truth, or perhaps all judgement had been clouded over from the influence of hormones, but Stanley couldn’t help read into his brother’s enthusiasm. He could understand the excitement from a dream of running away together to finally live independently, though it was the little details that insinuated… more. Stanford never said it directly, but there was something about how he spoke of their living together to seem more intimate; closer to a couple moving in together than two brothers sharing a flat._

_Due to Stanley’s passive guise, many incorrectly assumed that he wasn’t particularly emotionally aware, that social situations didn’t evoke any worry within him. This was certainly not the case, as both twins knew. They were more similar than many assumed; they simply expressed themselves differently. Both got too worried, both got stressed, both let their anxieties get out of hand. The difference was Stanford directed his worry inwards, while Stanley’s was very much outwards._

_And when you’re forced to stock shelves all day, your mind wonders down recently unearthed thought-patterns; when the most interesting thing is the barcode of a delivery, suddenly exploring and overanalysing other, more interesting elements of your life becomes somewhat addictive, as Stanley discovered first hand. After three shifts of solid shelf-stocking, Stanford’s subtle quirks of conversation had inflated into forbidden hints of repressed romance; the Freudian effects of sinful yearning for his own sibling._

_Stanley knew this was all nonsense. Stanford was_ not _harbouring an unspoken infatuation for him; Stanley was simply bored and more prone to overthinking than most people thought. As usual, his heart refused to go along with this idea. He found himself suddenly more nervous around Stanford; every smile was secretly flirtatious, every comment a complicated confession of attraction wrapped up in domestic exchanges._

_And before long, with a crushing realisation of despair, Stanley realised it was himself that was harbouring the unspoken crush. Excessive speculation had developed a pity for Stanley’s unconfirmed crush to the reciprocation of feelings that probably didn’t exist in the beginning._

* * *

 

Ford had found the most efficient method for focusing on his research was to blank everything other than basic bodily needs and functions, anything research related, and Bill. He found ignoring Stanley especially effective, though he didn’t want to start a fight with his brother by being rude, so generally kept himself confined to the basement; that way Stanley could be passively ignored.

Bill had been particularly praiseworthy of this method, and all had calmed after the commotion of the broken machine of the past week. All damage had been repaired, and with Bill’s assistance the two had restored any lost calculations, and were once again advancing to their goal. This positive progress, and the consistent string of rewards and encouragement from Bill left Ford feeling healthier than he had in months, his sleep pattern had begun to fix its self, he even found himself smiling and humming while he worked.

Heavy bonds around his mind loosened, Ford felt he had a lot more time to focus on his physical needs and had thus begun venturing upstairs more often; perhaps only to fetch himself a coffee or prepare a sandwich for lunch. But this then led to more encounters with his brother, who seemed to have claimed everything that wasn’t the basement for his own space, Ford noted.

At first the encounters were cold, awkward, unwanted – the two pretended they weren’t in the room together, any attempt at contact would’ve been completely taboo. However, as they begun occurring more frequently, each time with Ford’s frame of mind a little healthier, a little more optimistic, the encounters took steps away from being simply uncomfortable, and towards some kind of anticipation for one to make the first move in mending their broken relationship.

Naturally, it fell on Stanley – what with no pride to hold him back – to approach Ford. He’d been making breakfast for himself one morning, and to his surprise Ford had stumbled up the stairs from the basement, looking ragged and tired. Normally Stanley would’ve just avoided his brother, especially when he was looking so helplessly exhausted, however the change in the atmosphere that had occurred recently prompted Stanley to try a little harder.

“Do you – uh – want a coffee?”

Ford rushed to look at Stanley, as if not completely aware he’d been in the kitchen. His automatic response was a quick ‘no’, but he caught himself on as the rejection was just slipping past his lips. “N—well, actually, I don’t see why not.” A pause. “Thank you.”

A couple of coffees were promptly made - Stanley didn’t need to ask how his brother took it - and one handed over to Ford. There was a moment where they could’ve taken the progress even _further_ and Ford might’ve even sat with Stanley at the table to drink their coffee together.

That was far too much progress in too little time though, Stanley soon realised as Ford scurried back down to the basement, sipping the coffee frantically and cursing as he burnt his lips. Stanley smiled a little, appreciating the bitterness of the coffee.

At least it was _progress_.

 

* * *

 

_No harm had been intended when Stanley had initially theorised the possibility of Ford having a crush on him._

_However three weeks in, and now completely diseased with his own infatuation, and convinced that Ford certainly_ did not _harbour some hidden affection for him, Stanley had realised how direly that initial, three-second assumption had affected him. He could barely look at his brother, so overcome with guilt and disgust as to the yearning in his chest that he’d induced from the lethal combination of boredom and slight narcissism._

_More nauseating was the realisation that perhaps this wasn’t even a creation of feelings – born from his mind wondering into places it shouldn’t – perhaps this was simply an awakening, a discovery; perhaps for years Stanley had been smothering this sick affection and something only a psychologist - or Ford - could explain had been keeping his conscious mind from knowing it. All it had taken was the damn to burst, and the damage was done._

_Distraction was the simplest coping method. If he simply didn’t pay a massive amount of attention to Ford, there’d be no risk of him blurting out his adorations in an emotional vent, driven by adrenaline. There was also the sheer terror of Stanford discovering these feelings that helped keep his lips locked and mind averted; he couldn’t ruin their familial relationship because of some stupid teenage emotions that went against human nature._

_Though this was an ‘unstable system’ as Stanford might say. There was unresolved issues, Stanley knew it was only a matter of time before something changed, shattering the illusion of a safe equilibrium they were in now. And sure enough, one day Ford took it upon himself to push Stanley out of this comfortable stability._

_“Lee, you don’t think this whole… moving in together thing is weird? Someone – well – they – suggested that it was… weird and, like we weren’t brothers. I don’t know, I think they were insinuating we were something_ more _… I mean – I don’t think it’s particularly weird! I’m fine going ahead with it! I just want you to know there’s no pressure if you do think it’s weird!”_

 _Stanley froze in horror at Ford’s words, turning to look at where he was sitting on their bedroom floor. He blinked, ensuring he_ had _heard his brother right – had Ford worked out Stanley’s hidden emotions? Was this Ford’s way of awkwardly rejecting him, trying to save Stanley’s feelings? Was this some kind of pitiful rejection?_

_If Stanley had been more like his brother, he’d have taken all of this to be a humiliating event; a sickeningly sympathetic rejection from a disgusted, yet still caring brother._

_However Stanley was conscious of the innocence, the consideration, the care that Ford had delivered such a daring, provocative statement with. Something, perhaps instinct – was screaming at him that Ford really didn’t have any awareness of Stanley’s feelings. This did induce a great amount of guilt; Stanley realised just how obscure the notion of his ‘brotherly love’ was. He attempted to compose himself, choosing his words carefully._

_“I stand by the whole ‘not caring what anyone else thinks’ thing. If you’re not bothered, I’m not bothered. And hey, if it’s cheaper to share a room, and a bed if we have to, then we’re probably best doing it – we’re not really in a financial position to be picky about this stuff.”_

_Ford smiled. “I’m glad we see eye to eye. Honestly, practicality aside I’m glad we’re doing this –sharing a house, sharing a room, I’m glad nothing has to change. I’m glad you don’t think it’s weird.”_

_And that was all it took. Stanley’s overactive mind was back again, this time with the ferocity of a forest fire that had been presented with a fresh set of fuel to devour. The fantasies were back, and this was Ford’s coy way of hinting at the unyielding love for Stanley that had spiralled this whole predicament into action. How could Stanley stop himself when Ford was being so ambiguous!_

_“So you… see us as a couple? Or, aren’t freaked out by seeing us like that?”_

_He didn’t have time to think about the damage the words could’ve caused; Ford’s flustered expression was nauseatingly adorable._

_“I mean – as long as_ you _don’t mind,” Ford looked confused, both was unsure at what the other was getting at. The lack of communication was severe – Stanley slid off his bed to join his brother on the floor._

_Neither addressed the critical problem of the withholding of their true intentions. For now, it was so much easier to ignore it._

_Stanley leaned forward, Ford didn’t lean backwards. Stanley took Ford’s hand in his own, and Ford didn’t pull it free. Not letting his doubt cloud his instinct, Stanley closed the space between them, clumsily pushing their lips together, and Ford didn’t recline._

_He pulled back after a moment of lingering, surprised he had the heart to open his eyes and hold eye contact, before it was broken by a bashful Ford. The silence clung to them._

_“Is it disgusting that I didn’t find that disgusting?” Ford said, barely audible._

_“Not as disgusting as how relieved I am to hear you say that,” Stanley replied, huffing out a sigh of relief._

_Another brief silence before Stanley leaned in for another kiss, pushing his luck. It was worth it; this time Ford embraced him back, only for a moment, very cautious and timid, but it was reciprocation, and that was all Stanley needed to keep his fires roaring._

 

* * *

 

It had taken a good week of coffee offerings, but Stanford finally followed the social cue to sit at the table and drink with his brother over breakfast. Stanley had been surprised when Ford wordlessly pulled out the chair opposite his own, examining a paper that had been lying on the table, though promptly put it down after realising it was from two weeks ago.

“You want me to make you some breakfast with that?” Stanley said, clearing any awkwardness that might be gathering in the air.

Once again Ford looked ready to reject the offer, so Stanley cut across quickly. “You know, unless you’re eating when I’m not around, you really don’t eat enough.” He very nearly added a risqué, sarcastic afterthought about his experience of lack of food, but stopped himself when realising that could easily come across as passive-aggressive.

“Well,” Ford looked ready to argue, but couldn’t quite come up with a reason _to_ argue. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“I’m right. Here, you have this – I haven’t touched it – I’ll make some more for me,” Stanley promised, sliding his plate of bacon and eggs over to Ford. “Call it a service for letting me stay here a while.”

Again, Ford couldn’t really argue with that. He began to dig into the eggs and bacon, which seemed to trigger something within him that reminded his body that he did actually have to eat to survive. Suddenly he became aware of his dormant ravenousness, and it took five servings more of Stanley’s breakfasts to shut him up.

“I know I said it was payment for staying here, but Christ I didn’t think you’d eat _five consecutive plates_ ,” Stanley laughed, sweating and hot after standing over the stove for so long. “I hate to tell you but after all that you’ve run out of eggs and bacon.”

“I didn’t even know I _had_ any eggs and bacon.”

“You didn’t, I’ve been – uh – buying it.”

Stanford frowned, “I thought you didn’t have any money?”

Stanley looked away, sheepish. “I, uh, I don’t.”

“Have you been stealing _mine_!?”

“No, no – no! I haven’t been stealing your money. I simply get them by…. _Other means_.” Stanley looked away shiftily. He knew it was only a matter of time before Ford figured him out.

“You haven’t been shoplifting eggs and bacon, have you?”

“Not the eggs! Some old lady in town gave me a load for free because I’ve been helping chop some wood for her. Tough work.” Stanley said. “But, yeah. The bacon. And the coffee. And, uh – some other stuff.”

Ford caught Stanley’s drift and opened the cupboards to find more food in there than he’d ever purchased in his life.

“Yeah. Uh, that.”

There was a pregnant pause; Stanley wanted to run out of the room in humiliation, could this revelation to his brother that he was a shameless shoplifter be the end of it all? Could this be his ticket back to poverty?

Apparently not, as Ford began laughing great big chortles of amusement, a sound Stanley hadn’t heard in years. Ford shook his head, helpless, looking over at Stanley. “I can’t believe you would go to that extent! Stanley, just ask me for some money if you need food.”

“You don’t make it all that easy! You’re always being so distant down in your basement! And you’re definitely not very approachable!”

Ford’s chuckles continued. “You raise a fair point, I suppose. I didn’t think I was so unapproachable you’d prefer to break the law than even attempt at asking me. Stanley, you don’t need to worry, I’m not going to throw you out. Especially if you’re feeding me eggs and bacon every morning.”

Stanley joined in the laugher. “Only if you promise to stop being so icy!” He then smiled more sincerely. “But, thank you. It’s pretty comforting to know that. I can make other things, too. Only if they involve meat.”

 “You know I think you’re exactly what I need to fix my awful dietary habits. Perhaps this means we’re due a grocery run. A legitimate one.”

“I can go if you’re busy?”

“Nope, I’m coming with you,” Ford said, slipping on a coat. “Need to make sure you’re _actually_ paying for it.”

Stanley smiled, following suit. It had been years since he and Ford had spoken so comfortably around one another, hell it had been years since he’d been grocery shopping. Had he ever actually been grocery shopping? He wasn’t quite sure.

All that mattered was Ford’s warming up to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I just want to say sorry this took so long! What with cons and Christmas and school I’ve just been so busy! Also this along with chapter five were originally one whole big chapter but it just turned out to be way too long, so I split it in half haha. So the next chapter has been written and just need to be proof read so that should be out soon.  
> Also I hope it was obvious that I’m skipping between two different times? For some reason I feel a massive aversion to writing ‘past’ and ‘present’ as introducing the separate storylines, I have no idea why. But if you feel it’s unclear, please let me know, and I do apologise!  
> Thank you!


	5. The Betrayal

_It had begun well, their supposed ‘relationship’._

_The brothers, overcome in satisfaction in the new level of adoration they found for one another, allowed themselves to blindly stumble through a few ecstatic weeks of reciprocated feelings in that typically trusting adolescent fashion._

_However, fatal lack of communication morphed loosening heart strings to taut tripwires. To one another they attempted to hide the grating edges of slow-forming suspicions, but the strained feelings sought a form of relief. Stanford found himself tenser around Stanley, especially when they made attempts at intimacy. Stanley went the other way; only spurred on by his own doubt, as if to prove his worth perhaps, making him advance on Ford further._

_Ford’s main concerns – of course, only after the perpetual motion machine – was that Stanley was cripplingly jealous. Jealous of Ford who had all the praise of the family, all of the hopes and expectations; it was no real secret that Ford was the favourite. How Ford’s heart ached to picture his brother, so yearning for affection, though appreciated by his twin alone; truly tragic._

_Ironically Ford was very wrong with his assumptions; Stanley despised his own family and thus deemed their opinions unnecessary. Though the one member he loved much more than he was supposed to, the one whose opinion he cared for much more than his own, was the very reason behind his own discontent. Stanley was worried that Ford was simply going along with his ideas to be civil; that Ford had no real romantic, sensual, sexual – any attraction for Stanley. Similarly to his brother, this could not have been further from the truth; but to Stanley it was certainly a terrifying possibility, hence why he felt the need to prove himself wrong by being overly physical with Ford, to prove that the one time he wanted to be wrong about his suspicions he actually_ was.

_Naturally Ford’s stress and thus evasion of physical contact, and Stanley’s anxiety and thus crave of physical contact was a concoction for perfect disaster; all it needed was a reactive agent to begin the magnetic clash of destruction._

_Sure enough, one Friday night after school, Ford had been lying alone in their bedroom on the floor, devastated about his work that had been wrong;_ wrong! _Mulling in his desolate anguish he rolled around, humiliated that he could have thought to use that equation for_ that _problem! Completely ludicrous. And it’d hadn’t at all been aided by his father’s comment upon telling him the problem; “It’s because you’ve been hanging round your brother too much. You’re catching stupid.”_

_Ah, there it was; O familiar sympathy for such tragic familial disorder. If only he could protect his brother from such troubles. He sighed; once again the familiar nausea was forming in his stomach; how appealing the concept of not existing was becoming._

_The door opened, Ford was reminded of his existence again as Stanley stood there, sulky look on his face. Ford flipped over onto his back to look up at his brother._

_“What’s the matter?” Ford asked, gentle, though strained from his lingering burdens._

_Stanley shook his head. “Work.” He flopped down beside Ford on the floor, somewhat helpless._

_“I’ve missed you.” Stanley said, whiney as he curled up beside Ford, lamely reaching for Ford’s hand as a form of self-comfort._

_Ford stiffened at the touch; if there was ever a time he needed to be alone, especially physically, it was now. Though, one look at his brother told him that Stanley needed company as much as Ford needed solitude. One of them was going to have to compromise. Clearly by the strengthening grip around Ford’s waist, it wasn’t going to be Stanley._

_“What was bad about work?” Stanford attempted to keep himself calm, tried to hug his brother back. It was hard to try when you really didn’t want to._

_“Just, agh – they were saying all these things about me, and about you and -” Stanley sighed, looking away. “Sorry, it’s so dumb. They, they just made us seem leagues apart, like you were so clever for me and that you didn’t_ care _about me, that you were humouring me. I know it’s not true, but…” Stanley sighed, looking away again. “Or, I hope it’s not true anyway…”_

_Ford’s heart sank; he took this to be a confirmation of his own suspicions, that Stanley was more bothered about them seeming ‘leagues apart’ than he was worried Ford not caring for Stanley. Both were equally untrue, though Ford failed to see this._

_“You know that’s not true. I’m not_ ahead _of you I’m just different to you!” Ford smiled, attempting to help._

_Stanley just took this as Ford pitying him; that it was confirmation of his own suspicions that Ford really didn’t want anything to do with Stanley, that he was a problem. So he dealt with it how he always did and faced the problem head on; he leaned in to kiss Ford, completely oblivious to Ford’s clear aversion to the contact._

_Ford tried his best and let Stanley kiss him, though it only pushed his nerves closer to the edge. He sat up, frowning. “Look Stanley, can we not –” he motioned between them euphemistically, “do_ this _right now – I’ve had a bit of a tough day too and I – I need a bit of alone time.”_

_This was yet more proof to the devastatingly large (and highly misinterpreted) pile of evidence Stanley had been collecting in self-loathing. This was the decisive proof, the distressing execution of his wistful hopes of his brother ever caring for him._

_“If you don’t want to do this why didn’t you say! Why did you lead me on this far and get me so attached when you could’ve killed it so early on – did you enjoy watching me get my hopes up? Did you need to feel superior with emotions and romance_ as well _as everything else you’ve beaten me at – could you not let me have one thing?” Thoughts had escaped Stanley; he was acting entirely on adrenaline-fuelled instinct now. He had sat up too, voice cracking, tripping in and out of his melancholic key as tears began to form._

 _Ford, taken aback, jumped to the defensive. “What – what’re you talking about? I didn’t lead you on! You’ve practically pressured me into this whole thing! You initiated this - how on_ earth _could I have led you on!”_

 _“Pressured you! Like I would pressure the most precious person to me in all of existence? Ford don’t you get it? I’ve been so hesitant about this whole thing for the very reason of wanting to keep you safe and comfortable and – and _loving _me!”_

_Overwhelmed again, Ford stared at his brother. They both equally confused and upset, neither understanding the other’s point of view. After paying so much attention to their own pile of burdens, neither had the insight to look up before they tripped head first over the other’s pile. Not being able to take it anymore, Ford got to his feet, backing off._

_“I can’t fucking take this Stanley! I don’t have time to think about_ feelings _and the like – the college are coming to look at my work in under a month and I have made_ no positive progress _–” Then he said it again, as if just realising it to himself, “A month, oh god – oh_ god _they’re coming in a month.” He shook his head, unable to think clearly and ran out of the room, perhaps to vomit._

_Stanley, slumped in a heap on the floor, burst into inevitable fits of tears. He carried on making no attempt to stop despite the risk of Stanford coming back in – perhaps he wanted Stanford to see the wreck he’d left him in – though his brother never did._

_Stanley slept on the floor that night._

 

* * *

 

The spontaneous grocery shopping trip soon blossomed into a weekly ordeal, almost a catch-up session for the brothers. Ford had never enjoyed being in town so much before; it was incredible what conversations were sparked - what could be discovered - from simple groceries.

For instance, Ford was now completely convinced that Stanley’s stealing habit was unintentional and his brother was a borderline kleptomaniac. It was as if the man didn’t realise he’d shoved three fillets of expensive meat into his deep pockets – at least until they got home and realised there’d be steak every night for the rest of the week. Though the habit had become something of an amusement for the brothers, the chilling flipside did leave Ford wondering what kind of environment such a habit would be allowed to bud in.

Since their teenage years, neither brother had developed his cooking skills particularly well; Ford being so haphazard about anything other than his work, and Stanley not having the facilities, or often the food to cook with. With increasing number of grocery shops came increasing amount of food to be prepared and cooked, though with zero skill it proved quite difficult.

This led to further contact; cooking together. It often ended in lots of good-natured, panicky shouting and burnt food as both brothers blundered around the kitchen, though food had never tasted better than it did in this odd period of harmony.

There were a few rare occasions where Ford had even been persuaded out of work in order to join his brother in the sunlit kitchen as they prepared an evening meal; after a week of cooperating with each other over the stove their food had gone on an impressive journey from embarrassingly charred to somewhat tasty. Ford had decided that the quality of food was directly proportional to the quality of their communication, too, though he had yet to gather enough information to determine the cause of this. Eye contact increased, as did shy smiles and brash grins, accompanied by nostalgic chortles and new eye-crinkles of aged happiness.

Ford had been surprised, but that old adoration, odd sense of pride and respect he had once held for his brother so strongly had been relit inside him again. On many occasions - often when Stanley caught himself on before pocketing a watch or catching the grill right before it charred their dinner again – Ford would take a moment to watch and reflect, even smile as their old relationship shone through the wreckage caused by their messy decade of isolation.

Perhaps - the thought entered his mind one reflective morning – this was the beginning of forgiveness.

 

* * *

 

 _If he had done nothing else in the next few weeks, at least Ford had managed to complete his project. He was the proud creator and owner of the first Perpetual Motion Machine in the known universe. Proud didn’t even begin to describe him. Although his parents didn’t really_ get _it, they were awfully pleased too, his physics teacher had burst into happy tears upon its completion, and the science and maths department in their high school hadn’t spoken about anything other than Stanford Pines for a solid week._

_Though, despite this impossible completion and final relief of stress, Stanford felt somewhat hollowed by the completion. Now what would he work on? Rests were nice but they were almost illogically stressful in their own way. Something was missing – that omnipotent nagging feeling in the back of his mind informed him that of course, it was the one pat on the back that he hadn’t received – the mayor of their town had come to compliment him personally on his achievements, though the one congratulations that mattered most to him he had yet to hear._

_He had yet to hear_ anything _off Stanley in a good while. Apart from minimal communication that was impossible to avoid if you lived together, the two twins had been agonisingly isolated from one another. In proximity they were close – they had to be – rooms were still shared, they were usually in the bathroom and kitchen at similar times, in a lot of the same classes – though neither would be able to name a lonelier time in all of their existence._

_The first conversation was struck up on the morning of the day the Physics department of West Coast Tech were due to come down to see his machine. Naturally, Ford found himself on edge, so when Stanley came up behind him to hand him a coffee and wish him a good luck, both of them nearly received third-degree burns._

_“Watch it, watch it!” Stanley said, rescuing the coffee out of the radius of Ford’s shocked arm movement._

_“Oh, Stanley. Sorry, you, uh, you surprised me there.” He cleared his throat, averting his gaze as he graciously accepted the coffee._

_“I just wanted to say good luck today, you know – with the college stuff – y-you’ll do great and all that.”_

_Ford couldn’t help but allow a smile to bubble onto his face. He knew that Stanley probably didn’t want Ford to go to the West Coast for college – even after their falling out – and he was still here, wishing him luck. That struck something within Ford and he suddenly had an overwhelming desire for everything to be okay between them again. He should say something._

_“Look, Stanley – I’m really sorry for the other day. Looking back at it with calm hindsight I think we’re both caught up in our own little bubbles and have failed to see why the other is so upset. I didn’t mean to get so stuck in my own mind, and I certainly didn’t mean to upset you. I feel that now the machine is complete I’ll probably be a lot calmer, and won’t snap as much.”_

_Stanley smiled, satisfied. “Ford – thanks, that really means a lot. I’m sorry too – I honestly didn’t mean to get so carried away too and the last thing I wanted to do was pressure you or something. Friends?”_

_Ford shook his head. “_ Brothers, _” he corrected with a smile._

 _The sweet morning had only made the betrayal bitterer, knowing that Stanley had only been so pleasant because he felt bad about breaking Ford’s machine. He probably wouldn’t have even said good morning if he hadn’t broken it. Ford knew Stanley didn’t want his brother to leave to go to the West Coast, but to stooping to breaking all of his work, everything he_ lived _for – Ford was disgusted to even think about his brother._

 _He ignored Stanley’s futile pleas of innocence. It hurt more that he wouldn’t own up to the crime and still tried to rescue their relationship even now, after heartlessly breaking months of impossible engineering. Even ignorance wasn’t a durable shield anymore; even Stanley wasn’t ignorant to how_ important _this was to Ford._

_Stanley would admit that he had been in the school the night that breaking had happened, and that he had indeed passed by the area of Ford’s machine, admired it a little and knocked the table. That was how he could explain the evidence of the empty packet of toffee peanuts he’d incriminated himself with. However, he would not admit to being the cause of the breakage._

_“Ford it must’ve been someone else! Why would I do that to you? What on earth would I gain from destroying everything that’s important to you!?”_

_The pleading continued, Ford continued to ignore it, and ignore it. He ignored his brother’s frustrated crying from the bedroom, and ignored the shouting from downstairs when their father got home and heard the devastating news - ignored the thumps and clatters, blaming it on his mother clumsy while he ignored expressions of pain that sounded hauntingly like Stanley – ignored the terrifyingly final words and slamming of the door – ignored the haunting quiet that took over the house, and the significant lack of his brother’s gruff voice from downstairs._

_Ignore it, ignore it, if he could just ignore it then nothing would happen, everything would be okay – he could ignore it and wake up tomorrow and everything would be back tomorrow._

 

* * *

 

The sudden companionship Ford had re-discovered in his brother would be heart-warming to most, but to Bill it was a sharp thorn digging into his shin; painful and hard to remove, yet caused by something so irritatingly insignificant.

Before the sibling had so arrogantly strutted in and boosted Ford’s self-confidence, Bill had announced to the latter in a dream that, much to his _deepest regrets_ he wouldn’t be around for the coming week or so – demonic business and the like. It was partially true, with Bill’s focus on the third dimension in recent times, his duties in the fourth (and beyond) were being neglected. Of course, it wasn’t totally necessary that he excused himself for a solid week – but it was something of an experiment, to taste the deliciously wrecked state of mind Ford would be in after being deserted for one hundred and sixty eight long hours.

This appetite for instability was quenched only with disappointment, though, as there was no Ford obediently wagging his tail the moment Bill returned to the Mindscape. Odd; Bill had expected Ford would have spent most of the week sleeping, quivering in an empty Mindscape waiting for the conjurer to return.

Through the eyes of the triangular relics Ford had decorated his mortal home with in his God’s honour, Bill peered, watching the gloomier places of the house for some form of his petrified naïve student. When nothing was to be found Bill was beginning to worry the pressure may have been too much and the stupid mortal might’ve offed himself with the suffocating loneliness, but the thought was sliced apart by a chord of harmonious voices.

Gazing through a particularly nice statue of himself in the kitchen Bill, now engulfed by his own growing rage, watched the two brothers – now friendlier than ever – flirting around the kitchen doing whatever it is humans do with that substance they call food.

Most enraging was Bill’s inability to _do_ anything – he was trapped in the Mindscape unable to penetrate the Third Dimension properly – stuck watching his faithful chattel be smooth-talked into sanity by some ignorant mortal.

After an eternity of waiting for their coy dinner-date to come to an end, and for them to finally hustle themselves off to bed, Bill in his positively stormy mood prepared himself for what he could only hope would be the single satisfying thing to come of Ford’s betrayal.

Ford’s presence slowly faded into existence as he drifted into sleep, flickering into the Mindscape. The shock when he became aware of Bill’s return was at least somewhat fulfilling.

“Y-you’re back,” Ford stated dumbly.

“Well observed, IQ,” Bill - in his human form again for ‘intimidation purposes’ – turned slowly, calamity meeting Ford’s growing guilty terror.

“I missed you,” Ford said. This seemed to be the truth, at least, from the slight wavering of his tone and the rousingly bashful glance at the floor in an enticing, ashamed, self-hating fashion.

The Mindscape was plunged into a brief bubble of Bill’s manic laughter before he regained composure through a little cough. Ford wasn’t properly acquainted to his less civilized side and now was hardly the time to let maniacal laughter and deranged behaviour get the better of him.

“I’m sure you have, Sixer,” He grinned widely, eyes yellowed and orbicular. He beckoned Ford over, who obeyed beautifully, tottering over – charmingly hesitant – into the now familiar embrace of his fairy-tale villain.

Bill caressed Ford’s hair as he guided them into a comfortable sitting position, scratching the spots he knew Ford was weak to, grooming him into co-operation. He caught Ford’s neck between his teeth, gently toying with the skin, peppering kisses between speaking. “Though I’ve been away, I have been keeping a careful eye on you, you know? Need to keep tabs on my precious genius.”

Ford stiffened noticeably; ah, so he was conscious that his actions with the brother were something he shouldn’t be meddling with. Bill relished in the new leverage he’d discovered, hovering around all of the right buttons to wrap Ford tightly around his little finger.

“It would be such a shame if you allowed yourself to become distracted when the portal is only a week or so away from completion,” Bill said, not letting Ford drop his intense gaze. Ford helplessly incriminated himself as something close to yearning flashes through his eyes. Bill very nearly lost control right there, but after a flash of fiery passion in his own eyes, he resumed control, replacing the rage with a supposedly good mannered smile.

“Don’t be so familiar with irrelevant pieces of the puzzle, IQ.” Bill warned and finally broke their gaze to finalise his point with a half-kiss half-snap. Ford melted into the venereal embrace, voice escaping in a half-willing agreement of his own submission.

Though again, there was an unnatural shift in Ford’s movements – he suddenly tensed, and then Bill heard the slaughterer of his spell; some form of human alarm, probably. The impetuous beeping drowned the Mindscape, and with a rushed apology Ford snapped into awareness, the noise exiting the Mindscape along with him.

Ford shot awake, already knowing of the danger before he’d opened his eyes. He rushed to the kitchen, the source of the smoke alarm, to see what on earth could be on fire this late into the night.

A sheepish Stanley greeted him in the hallway.

“Shit, you were woken up by that, then? Sorry, you’ve just managed to fix your sleep pattern too and here I am disturbing it.” Stanley said, apologetically offering a peace-keeping smile.

“What on earth were you doing?” Ford said, good-natured in his questions. He slipped into the kitchen, absorbed in the deafening beeping – it was in disarray, pots and pans everywhere, he honestly didn’t know he owned so many kitchen utensils – and the last thing for his eyes to fall on was the culprit of violation of his sleep; a large pile of charred _something_ – god knows what it had been before it had been incinerated.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Stanley began explaining, “So decided I’d cook. Or something. I figured I could cook this lamb today and then tomorrow we could roast it or something, you know like – okay in hindsight it was a really stupid idea.”

Ford nearly shocked himself when he realised he was nowhere near annoyed with his brother. He simply laughed, shook his head at Stanley’s queer whims, and prompted his brother to help him begin clearing the charred disaster up.

He wasn’t sure what was so special about this particular evening – perhaps it was from being so pent-up after being with Bill – but there was a certain air about the night, a certain angle at which Stanley’s cheekbones were caught perfectly by the moonlight – and Ford found himself completely enchanted by whatever magic which bewitched the room that night. He bit his lip awkwardly; fumbling about in the low light with clumsy hands, reminiscent of his disastrous pubescent years. Glances of Stanley were stolen periodically, growing in length before Ford simply gave in and gazed at his brother, admiring the flaws of his skin, the furrow of his brow, the decade of alien changes which he was slowly becoming accustomed with.

When the admiration was one sided, Ford was perfectly happy selfishly adoring his brother, though when it was reciprocated, and Stanley turned to gaze at Ford in response, Ford began feeling the heaviness of the previously crisp night air crushing him. It was harder to swallow, suddenly nothing was enchantingly mysterious, the shadows were just irritatingly unclear, he didn’t know where to look, what to feel, what to _do_.

On instinct alone, Ford approached his brother slowly, as if trying to grow accustomed to the emotional pressure change in the room. Unsure of his intentions, he came in close to Stanley, catching eye contact for a brief moment – the pair paused, stagnant air between them as they exchanged the unspoken exchange of bashful lovers, each looking at the other’s lips, wondering what the experience would feel like after these long ten years – if they were allowed to see one another like that again.

Though as if triggered by the Demon himself, just as Ford nearly brought himself to break their spell of unanswered questions, Bill’s final words echoed around his mind, and the collar of guilt tightened around his throat unbearably – averting his gaze and stepping out of the illuminating ray of moonlight they had basked in, Ford bid his brother a goodnight, and retreated back upstairs, where he always ran to.

He’d never been so apprehensive of sleep.

 

* * *

 

_Ford still could not decide whether he was glad that that wasn’t the final time he saw his brother before their ten year separation._

_It was late into the night when Ford was disturbed, though not awoken by a stone hitting his window in perfect coming-of-age movie style. He knew who it would be before he drew the curtains._

_He was tempted to leave his brother standing out in the cold September night, though the concerned twin within him was highly anxious about the thin t-shirt Stanley was wearing, and the significant lack of luggage his brother had for someone who was meant to be running away. He headed downstairs and let his brother in for the final time._

_Awkward hellos were exchanged, and the two headed upstairs not speaking as Stanley quickly dashed into their room, grabbing the biggest gym bag he could find and desperately began shoving everything he deemed important inside._

_“Why’re you running away? Are you that ashamed?”_

_Stanley laughed bitterly. “I’m not, I was kicked out.”_

_Ford may be able to complete the impossible when it came to engineering feats, however he knew he would never be able to explain the significant internal temperature drop he experienced whenever he heard his brother say that, no matter how many laws of thermodynamics he knew._

_At Ford’s silence, Stanley gritted his teeth. “You honestly, with your whole heart think that I broke your machine, that I would do that to you? You think I deserve to get kicked out like this, even after I’m apologising endlessly for something I didn’t even do, you’re still going to let me kick them out? After_ everything _?”_

_Ford ignored the bubble rising in his throat. Studying the floor, he refused to look at Stanley. There was no other possible explanation, all the proof they needed, they had; no matter how much he wanted Stanley to be innocent, the facts simply didn’t allow it to be true._

_Finally Ford simply shook his head, “I don’t trust you.”_

_Stanley swallowed hard, unable to believe what he’d just heard. Ford couldn’t really remember what Stanley said after that, just that it was very loud, pitch all over the place as his post-pubescent voice cracked and jolted through tears, uncaring of waking up their parents, their neighbours, their neighbour_ hood _. All Ford could remember was the confusion and hurt that somehow, even now after falling victim to a brother that would go as far to rip apart his own invention, somehow Ford was still the one feeling guilty, with an awful feeling nesting, curdling at the pit of his stomach. Was he always to feel like he was in the wrong?_

_The door slammed shut, and that was the last thing he heard from Stanley until the knock on the door of his home in Gravity Falls._

_Was he in the wrong?_

 

* * *

 

Ford flitted awake the next morning, fresh eyes opening on an old problem. He knew what he had to do; playing paradise was over, it was time he stopped disappointing Bill. With little hesitation, he headed into his brother’s room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me if the beginning of this chapter sounds cornily melodramatic! It was intentionally written in that way, to capture the ~devastated nature of tormented teenage souls – oh woe is me and all of that – but I do apologise if it wasn’t as obviously piss-taking as I intended it to be; I really don’t want people to think I’m a pretentious twat that thinks writing like that is edgy and cool. Hehe.  
> I just finished my mock exams today with my physics mock (fuck I wish I had Ford to tutor me I’m so bad at it) so perhaps things can be produced a little quicker haha no promises ;3  
> Thanks again for reading and all of the positive feedback so far!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thank you for reading! I've been thinking about doing a longer project for a while now, I have everything mapped out in my head it's just cracking down to write it that's the problem.  
> Welp, here we go, a sort-of AU sinful Billford that will probably be angsty if I write it right haha.  
> Hope you enjoyed!


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